‘The following day you go see Father Julian again, this time asking for help in finding Sidney Alderman. It’s the same day you call me telling me you know who the missing girls are. Father Julian said that if he knew where Sidney was, he’d tell him to stay clear of you. Why do you think he’d say that?’
I look down at my thumb and the deep scarring from the bite that Sidney Alderman took. Sometimes it still hurts.
‘You think Father Julian is guilty of something?’ he adds.
‘What would he be guilty of?’ I ask.
“I don’t know. You tell me. You think he killed those girls?’
‘This is bullshit,’ I say.
‘He knows something about you, something he wouldn’t tell me. But I’m figuring it out,’ he says, and he runs his hand across the cover of the folder he brought into the room with him. The folder is thick, and the pages between its covers could be blank for all I know, though Landry wants me to believe they’re full of circumstantial facts that any moment are going to line up in the right order for him to arrest me for something.
I say nothing.
Landry fills in the silence. ‘See, it’s just a matter of connecting the dots. Yours are easy, because it’s a simple timeline. The last two years, Tate, you’ve had a lot happen. The accident with your family I sympathise with you — nobody should lose what you’ve lost.’
I still say nothing. I don’t want to help Landry get to wherever he is leading.
‘What do you think ever happened to Quentin James?’ he asks.
“I don’t know’
‘You seem calm about that, Tate. Me, I’d be angry as hell. I don’t think I’d have resigned myself to the fact that he got away.
I’d be jumping up and down and phoning the police and phoning the media and I’d be out there looking for him. I’d be annoying the hell out of everyone — asking questions, putting pressure on anybody I could to make finding Quentin James a priority. But not you.’
‘Maybe he’ll show up one day and justice can be served.’
‘If it hasn’t been already. It’s hard to go missing for that long, especially in this country. Then a month ago things change again.
People die. They go missing. And what happens? You start drinking. You start showing up at the church drunk. You harass Father Julian. You hound him with questions. A week ago he takes a protection order against you and you just ignore it. Want to know what I think?’
“Not unless you’re going to charge me with something.
Otherwise, I’m leaving.’
I stand up. The interrogation room sways a little. I reach down and grab the desk.
‘Sit back down, Tate, before you pass out.’
‘Charge me or I’m getting a lawyer.’
‘You violated a protection order. That means we can charge you.’
‘Then do it. You think I care?’
‘You know, I don’t really think you do. And that’s the problem.’
Landry gets up. He picks up the folder and his coffee, and he walks to the door. He juggles them so he can manage the handle.
‘I can see I’m wasting my time here. But let me warn you, don’t go back to the church. You go anywhere near Father Julian and I’m going to have you arrested. There’s going to be no more of this bullshit, right? No more of us feeling bad at the shit you’ve had to go through; no more of the people here feeling sorry for you and searching inside themselves to still care. You’re falling apart, and any loyalty you built up here is rapidly dissipating. You want to stay out of jail? Then you need to take a good long hard look at yourself and figure out what’s wrong. You get me?’
I get him.
‘And for Christ’s sake, Tate, go home and take a shower. You smell like a brewery.’
chapter twenty-six
I sit back down and wait for a few minutes, thinking about what he’s said, trying to decide whether the police could help me if I told them the truth, or whether they would crucify me. When I get up, I have to hold onto the desk again while I get my balance.
In that time I come to the conclusion that Landry doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about — none of these people do — and that they should just leave me the hell alone.
From every cubicle and every corner of the fourth floor
somebody is staring at me. I make my way to the elevator. Two years ago I was part of this atmosphere. I was one of the team, doing what I could to try to repair the broken bits of this city, to fight back the tides of surging violence in what was, and still is, a losing battle. Then things changed. The world changed. I handed in my resignation because I knew the department was going to ask for it. I didn’t want to stay and didn’t know what I was going to do once I left. The day I walked out of here, I had people coming up to me and patting me on the shoulder or shaking my hand and telling me that whatever happened to the missing Quentin James was something he deserved. Nobody came right out and said they knew I had killed him, because nobody
knew and, more importantly, they didn’t want to know. They all had suspicions, and they were all on my side, but if any proof had come along they’d have locked me up without remorse.
Now these same people stare at me. Nobody approaches. They